Admonitions to the Departed
by expiredvoices
Summary: The collective debris of a long-perished nation is usually piles upon piles of discarded remains. When Ivan absconds as the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, how will he deal with this withdrawl and loss?
1. The Introduction

[ **This is my first time writing a fanfiction on here! I hope you guys enjoy the work I put into this.  
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**Warnings;; This is a fanfiction about ****a generally sensitive topic - the dissolution of ****the USSR. There are several pairings, RusAme and UsUk among them. Rated R for future gore / smut / fights / cussing. Read at your own risk, it is not my fault if you don't like one pairing, or prefer one over the other. Use of human names. **]

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><p>The moonlight cast cadaverous shadows over the barren metal spiderwork of the overpass. A light rain had begun to fall, generating an unwholesome smell from the rusted railroad tracks below. The metallic, damp scent stung, as one would inhale.<p>

Nothing seemed to stop in the steadily growing city of Moscow. The vast changes the highly populated city had seen over the years had barely touched this ugly ravine, which carved a long jagged wound across the darkening frontier. This was a sore that would not heal, festering with the decay of industrial and human debris. Mountains of sand and gravel, whose ownership and use had long been obscured. Gaping corpses of machinery stripped of all dignity and purpose. Monuments to a technology discarded, now choked by the overgrowth of stunted sumac and tall grass.

It was all but silent, as were the few homeless creatures wandering the lonely paths. The living refuse that lingered anonymously, obliterated its pain in pint bottles and huddled under the pathetic shelter of the bridge.

The city had forgotten its frenzied fascination with this grim wasteland. Long gone were the hundreds of scientists who fled the dark presence that stalked them, who watched for hours as few others dredged the oily, stagnant pools. Ivan, who had been fending off the story so voraciously for years, never quite accepted the destruction and tragedy that had taken place in the one admirable place.

The dissolution of the Soviet Union did not leave the once respected nation in a favorable position.

Ivan's auroral lavender eyes sparked with a comatose. He just couldn't stomach going to the conference, and listening to America's infernal bleating of his success over his country. At least home he could swig down a couple of drinks and sort things out in peace. Nations were such flawed creatures, and in Ivan's sorrow, he hung over the fact he had died. No, not murdered by another, not being robbed of life and discarded quickly, but having the life choked out of him by _himself_. To appease his worst enemy. Sometimes he'd regret that. Other times he'd just yearn for that release, to be floating in an aimless field of nothingness, of the empty void he liked to call departure.

His sisters came around after the final, crushing declaration of his dissolution. We're suffering, they told him. Suffer? He asked them. Russia looked around, at the house he created, at the new furniture, the fine-tuned radios and the color-television. Nothing seemed to give him the idea of this suffering. Did they look underfed? His eyes veered back to them, eyes glacial with the cold, unrelenting strictness of his words, If you want suffering, he said, then how about you two leave? That would show them some real suffering.

So they did. Yekateraina packed Natalia's bags for herself, shoving every possession they could fit into their chartreuse briefcases. They walked out so uniformly, he was proud of how well they cleaned up, of how easily Ukraine had reverted back to herself before the cold war fiasco, and before he had annexed with him. Belarus's hands were shaking so much, she could not even stuff her own luggage into her bag. She was sobbing. Ivan felt sorry for her, but he knew that it was not at the loss of his company. It was at the feeling of becoming her own country. He didn't even pay attention to the quieting sobs of his name she spewed from her lips, the horrendous sounds of her sobs echoing ruefully in his head.

Ivan was, in turn, alone. As the day left his grasp, and the dimming sunshine retracted its' rays from the clouds and snow, he hung his head, remembering times when he did not have all of these endless issues.


	2. Out Cold

[ **Ah, the second installment of this story. This is, what I would like to call, the first official chapter. I hope you enjoy my story! **

**Warnings; Use of human names. o u o ] **

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><p>Time hangs very heavy on Ivan's hands. When he has nothing to do, he drinks and smokes too much. By the time he would be finished with the day, swarthy plumes of smoke are pooling to the ceiling of his office, and his eyes would appear half-lidded from intoxication. His boss tells him that it's dangerous to do so, that he's damaging himself with such trivial choices. Ivan says it remedies his lamenting, makes him quiet and less deploring. Ivan always speaks of emerging from the gray twilight of his repression during these hopeless times. All of the torment would be behind him then. Ivan swears he will once and for all establish his strength and his identity, and that each drink he downs brings him closer to doing so.<p>

Maybe that's the alcohol talking.

Natalia came around one brash morning. After she had exited so dramatically, and the spotlight had veered from her long after the curtain call, she had often thought about coming back to Ivan, and so, she acted on this human impulse. The door opened, then slammed shut behind her, sealing tightly. She came toward him slowly. She knew she had a very salacious way of walking and did everything she could to accentuate it. Her coat was loosely thrown over her shoulders so as not to conceal the provocative sway of her sleek hips. Ivan didn't notice, for despite her constant advances and attempts to capture his attention, she never quite got it. He wasn't interested in his own sister.

Belarus settled beside him in a nearby chair, and then she was very quiet, almost demure. Not that she had anything of real value to say, just the kind of drivel one would expect from a sister. Ivan could tell she was starting to feel comfortable with him again, attracted to him. He could see it in her eyes as she spoke.

She crossed her legs and brushed Ivan's leg momentarily in passing. That sudden unexpected touch of his flesh sent a thrill through her. She had to repeat it. After a few minutes, Natalia moved her leg against his, very tentatively at first. Ivan pulled his leg from hers, chewing his lip with a stare to his hands. She didn't move away, and pressed her leg more firmly against his.

"Amerika and I have been speaking," Natalia said abruptly, her tone hushed to a subtle murmur, but reverent. "He and I have established a sort of companionship."

Ivan's gaze was averted to the floor, not turning to her for one long moment. He tapped the cap of his pen against his desk, the varnished wood accenting the taps loudly. His tongue darted over his lips, thinking for a moment, before cocking his head languidly towards her. "Get out." Ivan replied, his voice anything but hostile, but an underlying threat remained in his voice.

Natalia stared at him, her eyebrows creasing back. She was beginning to tremble, the side of her leg gently shaking against his. He never knew her to be like this; he had never seen her degraded to such a state. Only this for him, he thought.

"I don't wish to speak to traitors. Your lovely sister Yekaternia did not do the same, I propose?" Ivan sneered, a power surging in his voice. Instead of bowing her head and exiting like he expected her to, she shook her head, forcing a tight smile. Belarus crossed her hands over one another, entwining them.

"No, her and Amerika are friends as well, braht." She retorted, quieting after a few moments of his stiff stare, which was directed at her. Those words; the final graveyard of impossible dreams and unfulfilled expectations. He wished them to be a close family, bound by not only blood, but also love. Now that was dead. They fell for the very thing they despised for so many years.

Ivan's pulled away from her, angling her chin up with his hand, watching her eyes blink and her lashes bat. She looked around aimlessly, before settling her meek gaze onto him. "Please, my dear sestra," He mumbled, pulling his lips inches apart from hers, their breath mingling as his voice and tone dimmed. "Leave my office at once. I wouldn't like to hurt you."

She blinked a few times, tears welling up in the corner of her eyes. Was she truly afraid of him? Ivan had always been slightly intimidated by her, even when he was at the highest of power, and now…his temper was shortening, and he knew just the right buttons to push on Natalia.

She did not utter a single word, her posture slumping against the chair as her eyes became downcast. Not even an assurance of her departure, just a very melancholy gaze, and a heavy sigh before she stood up, shaking his grip on her chin, and exiting his office. He was left in the serenity of introverted loneliness, a self-inflicted seclusion that he couldn't stand. It was all quiet, a pin drop could be heard.

Except for that incessant ticking; a haunting, fictitious ticking that echoed distantly in his head. He couldn't begin to describe his complete irritation with the languid ticking, knowing the beguiling ticks were nothing but his own imagination. This was the unrelenting noise that buzzed in his ears whenever he felt himself on edge. An unfavorable, obnoxious sound. He despised it.

Ivan gently rubbed his temples, his tongue darting transversely over his lips, moistening them for a moment. He did not enjoy this aggravating headache that was beginning to engulf his train of thought. First the ticking, now the throbbing. The Russian man stood up, looping his fingers into his own sand-colored hair, the cacophonous and disharmonic noise becoming more and more prominent in his emptying mind.

He couldn't stand it much longer, the grip on his hair becoming rugged and violent, a combination of tugging and pulling of the strands. When he reached his doorknob, unsure whether or not to exit his office and drive home, or to contact someone from a nearby payphone. He didn't quite have a plan, but the ringing in his head propelled him forward, evoking a strong reaction as he let out a low, unpleasant groan. The pain almost made his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He knew this wasn't any other type of headache, no. This was economic fallout. The collapse had been leaving him with frequent headaches, which he'd aid with alcohol, but this was something quite other. What he did not know was that the discordant noise was actually a dramatic loss of population (by suicide or by moving to another nation), and all-around wellbeing of the once triumphant nation. He kept shaking his head, gasping subtly as he tried to regain his composure. His vision was blurry, glassy as his now dusky violet eyes shot frantically around the room. Ivan had not experienced such a horrible pain, not since Bloody Sunday or the death of the Romanov's.

He swore he could feel the ticking completely envelop his thoughts, each carefully organized emotion splitting and cracking as every inch of him convulsed internally, with a violent, festering pain. When he finally turned the chrome knob into his hallway, tears descended temperately down his cheeks. He couldn't breathe normally, each breath coming out in a very laborious puff. What he didn't notice right away was the pale-haired, now bewildered nation who stood in his doorframe.

He only had been waiting to turn the doorknob; speak to Ivan in a maybe slightly diplomatic tone. He didn't expect his ex-enemy to come staggering through the door, arms shaking feverously with sobs, pain evident on his expression. Alfred stared at him dubiously, blinking wordlessly as he watched the once collected, very calm Russia stumble backwards as his eyes met with his own blue ones.

"What…Ivan, what the fuck?" Alfred exclaimed, eyes widening at the sight of the disheveled Russian. The words fell upon deaf ears, and Ivan remained mute except for the occasional muffled sob that he expelled. Ivan shook his head, over and over, tears welling deep within his clouded eyes.

"…Go...away.." Ivan mumbled dully, his overcast expression slackening as his eyes rolled back into his skull. No nation had a higher pain tolerance than such a nation as Russia. But even he had his point of breaking. His unconscious action lead to Alfred catching Ivan in his grip, eyes darting to the now lethargic Russian. His breath was not frenzied, but now shallow and distant.

_He was out cold._


End file.
